A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

  “K.”

  Rosie shot me an exasperated I’m-not-sure-how-much-more-I-can-take-of-my-mother look.

  “What about my bum hole?” Ben piped up.

  “What about it?” Rosie said.

  “Is that the right word?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “An’ whaddabout tits? Dad says I can say tits.”

  “Does he? Typical.” Rosie sent me another look. “Well, maybe Dad and I should discuss that. I don’t think that ‘tits’ is a very nice word. I would prefer it if you said ‘breasts.’ ”

  “’K …” With that, Ben turned his attention to me. “Aunty Tally, jew like my T-shirt?” He stuck out his chest. “It says I’m a bruvver.”

  “That is so cool.”

  “Ben loves his baby sister,” Rosie said. “Don’t you, Ben?”

  He shrugged. “She can stay here for eleventy-one days.” He held up three fingers. “Then she has to go back to her own house.”

  “Aw,” I said, turning down the corners of my mouth to make my point, “couldn’t she stay here just a tiny bit longer?”

  Ben gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Nope. She smells.”

  At this point Pru and Frank appeared.

  “Tally,” Pru cried. “Frank, look—Tally’s here.”

  “I know, dear. I’m standing next to you. I can see her perfectly well.”

  The three of us exchanged hugs and long-time-no-sees. They both offered their condolences regarding Josh. “Rotten old business,” Frank said, hands in the pockets of his corduroys.

  “But you are young and pretty,” Pru chirruped, taking my hand in both of hers and patting it. “You’ll get over it. No point dwelling—that’s what I say.” She looked at Rosie. “I said that to you after Dan left, didn’t I?”

  “You did, Mum,” Rosie said, rolling her eyes. “Many, many times. In fact, it was pretty much all you said.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure that’s true.”

  Rosie asked her mother where Izzy was, and Pru said she was asleep in her pram in the hall. At this point, Pru turned to Ben. “Darling,” she said, frowning, “do keep those nasty frogs away from me. You know Grandma doesn’t like frogs. I hate the way they jump without warning.”

  “Mum, you live in the country. How can you be scared of frogs?”

  Pru shuddered. “I don’t know. I’ve got a phobia—that’s all.”

  “Gran’ma’s a scaredy-cat.” Ben giggled. Then he turned to his mother. “Do frogs do smelly poohs?”

  Pru grimaced. “Ben, I wish you wouldn’t use that word. It’s so vulgar.”

  “Pooh,” he repeated, full of embarrassed defiance.

  “Ben, please,” his grandmother said. “We don’t say words like that in this house.”

  “Mum, take it easy,” Rosie said. “Ben and his friends are all into bums and pooh right now. It’s called being almost five. They think bodily functions are hilarious.”

  This time, Pru shuddered.

  “What on earth is your problem?” Rosie said. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t pooh in your house. You and Dad go for number twos.”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Frank said. “These days, much to your mother’s disgust, I go for a Donald. In fact, I can feel one coming on right now. So, if you will excuse me, I think I will adjourn to the throne room.” He picked up the Guardian and disappeared upstairs.

  “A Donald?” Rosie said to her mother.

  “Donald Trump. It’s rhyming slang. Sometimes, your father can be so childish. He heard it on TV. Had him in stitches.”

  “Oh, you mean Donald Trump … dump.”

  “Rosemary. Please. Not in front of you know who.” She pincered some imaginary lint from her tartan pleats. “I don’t understand why you can’t teach Ben to say number twos.”

  “Because it’s twee and means nothing. A bit like winkie.”

  Clearly aware that she wasn’t going to win, Pru said she was going to put the kettle on and did either of us fancy a top-up. Rosie and I said we were fine. We sat in silence while Pru got busy with cups and teaspoons and opened a tin with a stag on the lid—full of her homemade shortbread.

  Ben said he was going into the garden to play with his frogs. Rosie reminded him that it would be cruel to keep them in a hot plastic container for too long and that pretty soon he would have to put them in the pond. He nodded and disappeared.

  By now Izzy was waking from her nap. We could hear her in the pram, making soft snorting and snuffling sounds. “Somebody’s hungry,” Rosie said. “I’d better get her.”

  But Pru insisted she leave her “just in case she drops off again.”

  “Mum, she’s not going to drop off again. She wants feeding.”

  Pru said that Rosie had fed her only a couple of hours ago. “If you’re not careful, that child will have you wrapped around her little finger. You can’t give in to her every demand. She has to know who’s boss. Tough love—that’s what she needs.”

  Rosie turned to me. “You will notice that my mother has a zero-tolerance attitude to infants.”

  “Now you’re just being silly,” Pru said. “I’m just worried about how you’re going to cope when your father and I leave; that’s all. I don’t want you making a rod for your own back.”

  Rosie brought Izzy into the kitchen. She was wide-awake and looking round the room with her big blue eyes. “Oh, Rosemary, just look how alert she is,” Pru said. “We’ve definitely got a bright one here.”

  I couldn’t get over how cute Izzy looked in her pink dungarees and matching stripy T-shirt. Rosie was watching me watching the baby.

  “Think you might like one?” she said. She was holding the baby in the crook of one arm and unbuttoning her shirt with her spare hand.

  For a second or two I was overcome with sadness. “Like that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

  “Tally, you’ve had a terrible setback in your life, but this is not the end. The story isn’t over.”

  “Rosemary’s right,” Pru said. “A few years from now this will be nothing more than a bad dream.”

  “I try telling myself that,” I said, “but I find it hard to believe.”

  “You just have to keep repeating it,” Rosie said. “Eventually, it will sink in.”

  Prudence said she would take some apple juice and a couple of biscuits out to Ben. “And when your dad comes down, maybe you could, you know … cover up a bit.”

  “What? … You’re saying I should be embarrassed to breastfeed in my own home?”

  “Not exactly, but your dad does find it a bit difficult.”

  At that point Frank reappeared. “What do I find difficult?”

  “Rosemary feeding …”

  “What about it?”

  “You know … showing her … chests.”

  “Her chests? Oh for God’s sake, give it a rest. I have absolutely no problem with Rosie breastfeeding. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Has it occurred to you that the problem is yours … Prudence McPrude?”

  Pru sniffed and disappeared into the garden. Frank said he was going into the living room to watch the cricket.

  “I know Mum means well,” Rosie said after her parents had disappeared, “but she is driving me round the bend. I swear she’s getting worse the older she gets.”

  “Well, at least you’re getting some sleep while they’re here.”

  “And I’ve been writing like mad … Actually, I’d love it if you read a few chapters.”

  Rosie’s laptop was sitting on the table. She was already opening it with her spare hand.

  “Great.” Oh God, she was going to want feedback. I could feel my heart rate picking up. I asked her what Pru and Frank thought about her writing a novel. She said that neither of them was taking it very seriously.

  “Mum practically patted me on the head and said, ‘That’s nice, dear.’ Then she went on about how all mums should have a little hobby. Dad just quoted me a load of statistics about how hard it is to get published.” She
hadn’t shown them The Sand Collector’s Daughter.

  A few keystrokes later, Rosie slid the laptop towards me. “I’ll e-mail you the rest. Just read the first paragraph.”

  I started reading.

  Chapter 1

  Who was he, this man, my father who had sired me not out of feverish passion, but, as my mother had explained through salt tears, out of marital ennui? Who was he, this creator of mine, this begetter of me whose calloused feet had walked with such purpose on the beaches? As I carefully opened a jar labeled “Byron Bay” and felt the soft grains against my fingers’ flesh, I realized that I was beginning to find out. My father was in that jar! I could feel his stillness, his eyes bluer than the Cornish sea in which he had so often swam, burning in front of me, trying so hard to tell me something. But his message was unfathomable. I closed the jar and looked closely at the sand that stuck to my fingers …

  “Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “You like?”

  “It’s remarkable.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m so glad, because Mary read it and loved it.”

  “Really?”

  I was feeling my way into this. I still didn’t have the heart to destroy Rosie’s hopes. I was aware that my mouth was open and nothing was coming out. Meanwhile, there was screaming coming from outside.

  “Ben! Urggh! Get them off! Get them off! They’re all over me!”

  “Mummeee! Mummee! Come quick. Gran’ma’s got frogs down her tits and up her skirt. I fink vey’re going to jump up her bagina and into her bum hole.”

  Frank rescued three frogs from inside Pru’s blouse and another three from up her skirt. It seemed that Ben had decided to play a cruel joke on his grandmother and had tipped the little fellows over her while she was sitting on the grass.

  Frank released the frogs into the fishpond, and we all came back into the house. “That was horrible. Horrible,” Pru cried, still shaking. “You naughty boy, Ben. How could you be so unkind to Grandma? You know I hate frogs.”

  Frank was telling Pru to calm down and that it was just a silly prank. Rosie was trying to get back to feeding Izzy and tell Ben off, but her words had little impact on her son, who was already bawling his eyes out from the shame. He wasn’t a nasty, bullying child, and it was clear that he was sorry for what he’d done. Pru was demanding he be sent to his room without any lunch. Rosie said couldn’t she see how mortified he was and she didn’t want to punish him anymore. Frank said he was inclined to agree. Pru said what did he know about disciplining children. “Whenever any of ours were naughty, you never intervened. It was always me who was forced to play the bad cop.”

  I put the kettle on in the hope that a cup of tea would calm everybody down. But the ructions continued. To make matters worse, Izzy had picked up on the noise and tension and was bawling her head off, refusing to feed. “Why don’t you go,” Rosie said to me. “I’m not sure there’s much you can do.”

  I offered to take Ben off her hands for a few hours. Rosie thanked me but said that even though Ben was sorry for what he’d done, she still needed to have words with him about his behavior. “Go. I’ll call you.”

  I didn’t need telling a third time.

  I’d just pulled up outside the flat when my cell started ringing. I pressed CONNECT.

  “So is the Viagra working?”

  “Nana, it’s me, Tally. I’m not on Viagra.”

  “I know, darling. I was talking to Millie. I invited her round for lunch. Her gentleman friend takes Viagra.”

  “Thank you for that information.” Huh, so Millie Siderman–Spider-Man had a gentleman friend. At her age. And they were doing it. Good for her.

  “So how did it go with Kenny? Such a lovely young man. You know you could do a lot worse.”

  I burst out laughing. “Nana, you are priceless. I only just got dumped, and here you are, already matchmaking. Kenny’s a lovely chap, but dating is the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “But you have to move on with your life.”

  “I know, and I am trying. I just need a bit more time.”

  “Well, if you ask me, you need to get straight back in the saddle. I’m calling because there’s this lovely chap Millie wants you to meet.”

  “Nana, no. I’m really not up for this.”

  “OK, but just listen for a minute. What harm can listening do?”

  “But I don’t want to listen. I’m not ready for a relationship, and I’m certainly not ready for blind dates. They’re stressful at the best of times.”

  “He’s Millie’s cleaning lady’s nephew.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Not Jewish, though.”

  “Since when was that an issue?”

  “OK, I just thought I’d mention it. Anyway, he’s your age. Very handsome apparently.”

  “Nana, I’m so not interested.”

  “And he’s a doctor.”

  “Oh, brilliant. Another doctor. Just what I need. No. This isn’t happening.”

  “I said you’d meet him.”

  “What? How could you do that without asking me? Well, you’ll just have to tell him you got it wrong.”

  “But what’s the harm? You never go out. You never do anything. All you do is watch TV. Put on a nice dress. Do your hair. Go out and meet the chap for a drink.”

  “Absolutely, categorically, no.”

  “Ooh, I can feel this sharp pain in my chest. It’s going down my arm. It’s just come on.”

  “Nana, stop with the emotional blackmail. I’m not buying it.”

  “OK, but just meet him. Please. Do it for me.”

  I knew she would keep badgering me until I caved in. I let out a long sigh. “OK, when?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight? No way. I have plans.”

  “What plans?”

  “Pride and Prejudice is on. The Colin Firth version.”

  “Record it.”

  “I don’t want to record it.”

  “The arrangement is you meet him at All Bar One, Battersea … Northcote Road … seven thirty. He’s name’s Derek and he’ll be reading a newspaper.”

  I felt myself caving in. “And he’s a doctor, you say.”

  “Not just a doctor. According to Millie, he’s a rich doctor.”

  Chapter 11

  I’d just settled down with a cup of tea and Antiques Roadshow when I realized it was almost six. If I was going to make it to Battersea by half past seven, I needed to get ready. I dragged myself away from the TV, changed into a pair of newish jeans and put on some makeup. I was still cross with Nana, and there was no way I was about to make a huge effort for this date.

  Even though he had his back to me, I spotted Derek at once. He was sitting at the bar with a Peroni and a copy of the Times.

  “Derek?” I said.

  He turned round. “Tally, hi.” He stood up and we shook hands. OK—round one to Nana: He was definitely easy on the eyes. He was dark, well built—definitely my type. Under normal circumstances I would have been feeling some kind of attraction, a few sexual stirrings maybe, but nothing was happening. I knew I was still feeling pretty dead inside and that only time would change that.

  “Look, I’m sorry about all this,” Derek said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually let old ladies arrange my social life. But Mrs. Siderman wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I put up a fight, she threatened to have a heart attack.”

  “Ah, the old heart attack routine. My grandmother did the same. I’ve learned to ignore it, but I guess, not being Jewish, you’re a novice at all this emotional blackmail.”

  “I’m afraid I am, but listen, if you want to call this whole thing off, I totally understand.”

  I decided that he seemed like an open, thoughtful chap. I couldn’t possibly walk away. “I’d love to stay and have a drink,” I said.

  “Great.” He was ordering me a glass of house red when I noticed his necklace.
I wasn’t crazy about men who wore jewelry—other than wedding bands. What was more, the necklace wasn’t particularly attractive. I didn’t mind the choker-length string of black beads. It was the African tribal mask pendant—complete with strands of wild hair and hideous gappy pointy teeth—that threw me.

  “So,” I said by way of a jokey opener, “my grandmother tells me you’re a rich doctor.”

  Derek burst out laughing. “Er, not quite.” He paused. “I’m actually a witch doctor.”

  “Wow! No kidding!” I said. That explained the pendant. “So I guess there can’t be too many witch doctors called Derek.”

  He smiled. “No. I suspect I’m the only one.”

  “So are you into all that voodoo stuff—fetishes, taboos, animal sacrifice?” I couldn’t believe it. A minute ago, Derek had seemed so normal. I imagined him alone in his bedroom, dressing up in a leopard skin and arranging feathers in his hair.

  “Good God no. That’s what everybody thinks, but nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Derek spent the next three hours enlightening me. He spoke like a man who had swallowed the entire Wikipedia entry on witch doctors. I learned that witch doctors—real name: sangomas—weren’t witches. In fact, they were medicine men who worked against the black arts. “They are holistic healers who believe that their ancestors in the afterlife guide and protect the living.” Of course, Derek, who had been born on the Isle of Wight, didn’t possess any African ancestors as such, but he got round the problem by convincing his Zulu mentors to let him adopt one or two of theirs.

  By the end of the evening I knew how to cure infected wounds (ant venom), worms (bitter melon) and even erectile dysfunction (penis stretching or, failing that, magic foot water). It turned out that Derek was doling out these untested, untrialed remedies all over West London. He had no compunction about selling them, his reason being that the world needed to move away from science—which had turned us into cynics—towards faith. I made the point that it wasn’t faith that had given us the smallpox vaccine, penicillin and antibiotics and that I would stick with science, thank you very much.

  We parted on good-natured, let’s-agree-to-disagree terms, but we didn’t exchange phone numbers.